Football with Dad

“I do not want you to go to the football game with wet hair, Mable. I mean it!” My mother was convinced that wet hair could make me sick. I had wet hair every day of my life; I was a swimmer. Shower, pool, shower, pool; it never ended. I was rarely sick, but she was sure I was going to die of wet hair someday.

“Yes, Mother, I will towel it completely and then come and sit in front of the stove. Dad is still not home from work. I have plenty of time. You know he is going to want to eat dinner before we leave, so my hair has more than enough time to dry.”

What I wanted to do was to go early and have Dad catch up with me later at the game, but I knew Mother was not going to let me leave with wet hair. Burnie had already left because the band was practicing before the game. He played the trumpet and played it well. Only boys could be in the marching band, and the director only picked what he called “the best boys”, so you know Burnie had to be a really good trumpeter. He was also in the concert band and was always in the first chair. That was another honor for the best players of each instrument. Burnie always supported me at all my meets and games, so I would have gone to the football games even if I wasn’t an enormous football fan. Dad went for the football; I went for the football and for Burnie’s band.

Finally, Dad got home from his construction job. Sometimes he worked nights at the city water plant; in Des Moines, they call it the Water Works. He never worked on Friday nights, though. He had no trouble with just grabbing a quick dinner and then taking me to the games after working all day. Being a blacksmith, and now a high-rise steel worker, he was in good shape. Dad was older than most of the dads of my friends, but he sure could keep up with them. Of course, after working all day and then taking me to a football game, he was always ready to sleep heavy after all that.

“I’m done eating, Mable,” Dad called to me from the dining room. “Is your hair finally dry? Mother’s not letting us out of the house until it is, you know!”

“I know, Dad. It’s been dry for about thirty minutes. I want to get there in time to see Burnie before the game, so let’s hurry. I need to check on those sportswriters of mine, too. They did a great job on pre-season and tonight’s Homecoming game. I can’t let them start goldbricking as we get closer to the end of the season.”

Mother heard that comment. “Don’t you go getting brassy on us, Mable. You stay sweet and polite with those boys.”

“Yes, Mother, I was just joking,” I reassured her, “We are all working swell together; even Miss Hawn says so.” With that, I grabbed Dad’s hand and we dashed out the door.

I treasured the time that I had alone with Dad. He was a kind, strong father, but he was also like a teenager sometimes. He would get so excited about sports, and he taught me how to enjoy them by appreciating the athletic efforts of individual players. I don’t think there was another man in Des Moines who knew more about sports, except maybe for Ted Ashby or Sec Taylor. They were incredible sportswriters for the Register and Tribune, so it was their job to know more. Dad was right up there with them!

We had not had much time to talk lately, with his work schedule and with all my fall activities, and he started to question me, “So, honey, how is the swim season treating you? Are you keeping up with all your schoolwork and with the newspaper?”

“The swim team is winning meets like gangbusters, Dad. We have the best relay teams in the city in the medley, breaststroke, and freestyle. My backstroke is getting even smoother and faster. I’ve set a goal to break the city record in the 100-yard backstroke in the next meet. Then we have the state meet. I’m shooting for that record, too. It’s getting close to the end, Dad. I hope you can make it to our last home meet in three weeks. It will be my last high school competition, except for the state meet.”

Dad got quiet all of a sudden, and maybe looked a little sad. I couldn’t quite tell. I did not like that look and he noticed.

“I will be there, honey, don’t worry. I know I have been working a lot, but I’m kind of like the squirrels you see running around in all the trees right now. They are hustling to gather up enough nuts and food to get them through the winter that is coming. Your mother and I are trying to save up enough money to get us through the winter. Pretty much all of the outside jobs at the Water Works and other construction places disappear over the winter. If I don’t want to have to head south to Texas over Christmas, we need to have a bundle of cash saved up. I can make plenty of money in Dallas or Houston; they both have big new skyscrapers going up, but I would rather be here to watch all your senior year sports, kiddo.” He was the best dad ever. I loved him so much.

I realized it wasn’t fatigue or sadness I saw on his face, it was worry. He was worried about money again. Times were so hard for many people now, and I knew Dad worked hard to make sure our family did not end up in the dire straights that hit many families in this Great Depression. We were more fortunate than most, for sure. His worry was deep, however.

“Well, are you going to fill me in on the newspaper and your grades, too? Life does not revolve around swimming, you know? Unless you’re Johnny Weissmuller, of course! Five gold medals in the last two Olympics. There’s a swimmer for you, and it got him into the moving pictures, too!”

“Or Sybil Bauer! Wow, she really showed the whole world in the 1924 Paris Olympics, didn’t she, Dad? She totally clobbered everyone in that 100-meter race. She won by FOUR seconds! Who does that? Boy, oh boy, would I like to do that! I am going to do that someday, Dad. Wait until I get to the University. I am going to set national records, Dad. I know I can. Maybe I can even swim in the Olympics!”

He gave me a patient smile. “I’ll bet you can do anything you set your mind to, darling daughter, but first let’s get you graduated from high school. Your mom graduated back there in Steamboat Rock, but I didn’t, and you know how much it means to us that you get that diploma.”

“Dad, you know I am going to graduate. And then I’m going to college, and I’m going to get a degree in journalism.” I winked at him and gave him an elbow as we walked along. “And then I am going to be a sportswriter for a big newspaper and put everything you have taught me about sports to use! That stuff is better than everything I’ve learned in my classes!” I stopped him right where we were and gave him a little bear hug! He gave me one of his great big bear hugs back. He really was a very strong man! And he was the best dad in the whole world.

“We’d better get a move on if we are going to get to talk to Burnie before the game, little girl,” Dad reminded me as we started walking faster, hand in hand.

Burnie was on the edge of the football field, right next to the opening in the fence that went around it. He saw us coming and waved at us to hurry up. He could see over the heads of all the band members, even with their high hats on. With all the height he had, I never could understand why he didn’t play basketball. Actually, I did know why; he showed me regularly on his driveway. The kid had no moves. He could pitch some real zingers with a baseball, but a basketball was unmanageable in his hands.

“I’m so glad you could make it in time, Mr. Hall. You, too, Mable. The band has worked up a keen version of John Phillip Sousa’s The Gallant Seventh to march onto the field with for the Star-Spangled Banner before the game. Then at half-time, we are going to do a whole marching routine with that and a couple of his other marches.” Burnie barely stopped for breath. “You are going to love it! It is so exciting!”

“We’re here now, Burnie. Mable made sure we got here in time. I barely had time to put down my lunchbox when I got to the house after work.” Dad added, looking Burnie right in the eye, “I want you to know that I am very proud of you for making the band, Burnie. I know your director only lets in the very best young men, and even though you never learned know how to get a rope over a branch for a tire swing, you sure have learned how to make that trumpet sing. Good job, young man.”

“Gee whiz, thanks so much Mr. Hall. You know, I have been teasing your daughter ever since she got that sports editor job, that maybe she was going to try to be the first girl in the marching band, too.” Burnie and Dad both laughed out loud at that comment.

“Very unfunny. Very, very unfunny, fellas.” I was about to start defending myself when the director waved to Burnie and he had to go line up with his band mates.

“It was funny, Mable,” Dad said, “but you know Burnie and I are both proud of you and the work you are doing on the Oracle and on the swim team. Your hard work has been impressive. You never answered me, though, on how your grades are going.”

Dad was satisfied to hear I had all As and Bs. We were not even to the nine-week mid-point of the semester, and everything I had spent the summer planning was happening just the way I wanted it to. My senior year was going perfectly. Homecoming was tonight, my dad was my date for the game, and Robert Dodd had to do all the work on writing this one up for the Oracle. I started thinking that he and the other two fellas had done a respectable job as my sports writing staff so far this year. None of them was Grantland Rice, though, that was for sure.

It just popped into my head! “Dad, I just thought about that article Grantland Rice had in that New York paper last week, about the Notre Dame football team. Remember that? You read it to me, I cut it out, and I have it pasted inside my journalism notebook. That is the most amazing sports writing I have ever read. The words he used were not football terms. It was a lollapalooza! I want to write stuff like that!”

I couldn’t stop. “Miss Hawn said it was too much and not really sports news, but I think it’s the best I ever read. It would make anyone love football. I wish I could have been at that game! I would have loved to see it like he described it; ‘Outlined against a blue-gray October sky, the Four Horsemen rode again.’ I wish I could’ve been one of the 55,000 people who were there. That would be like if half of all the people in Des Moines showed up at one of our games. Half of Des Moines, Dad, half!”

“Calm down, Mable. It was a wonderful description, and I am sure someday you will write spectacular lines like that. Until then, be a good girl and spread out this blanket on the bleachers so we can sit down and watch Burnie. I love reading Mr. Rice’s articles as much as you do. Remember the one I read to you a couple of years ago, about Babe Ruth?”

“Mr. Rice loves sports and he loves athletes. I wonder if he will write about me when I set Olympic records. I would love to have him write about me. He wrote about Babe Didrikson, so I know he likes women athletes. What if I became a sports writer, and I got to meet him…like after he had written about me. We could be friends, and he could teach me how to write better. Maybe I could meet him if I go to the National Telegraphic Swimming Meet when I am in college. Do you think he would be there, Dad? Dad? Dad?”

Dad had gotten up and walked over to the fence again, so he could see Burnie better. I guess I had been talking too much. It was okay though, because as soon as the game started, all Dad and I did was talk football, calling plays like we were the coach, and cheering for our North High Polar Bears.

After the Star-Spangled Banner, Burnie joined us on the rickety bleachers until half-time, like he always did. It was getting cooler, so I sat between my two favorite fellas, and stayed warm for the whole game. We cheered, we jumped up and down, and we had all the rowdy fun that good fans whose team is winning always have. A few times I saw Robert and his assistants on the sidelines of the field. They were taking notes, which is what they were supposed to be doing. This Sports Editor job was not nearly as difficult as Miss Hawn had tried to portray it.

The march that Burnie and the band played was outstanding. That old Sousa guy really knew how to write a rousing march! The sousaphones in our band played the loudest, but Burnie had a trumpet solo right in the middle of the march. I was really glad that Dad and I were there to see it. Burnie’s dad almost always worked late and usually did not get to his marching band performances. It didn’t seem to be as important to him as Burnie’s baseball games. Mr. Orwig was always at those and cheered really loud…a little bit too loud sometimes, if you know what I mean.

When the game ended, our wonderfully burly Polar Bears were victorious once again. There was nothing quite as thrilling as winning the Homecoming game your senior year. Except maybe meeting Mr. Grantland Rice and having him write an article about you breaking an Olympic backstroke record, with the giant headline ‘Marvelous Mable!’ Well, I could always dream.